Exit Strategies
by randomsomeone
Summary: They're not hiding from their respective responsibilities—just from other people. Sometimes that requires rescuing each other, sometimes it requires theatrics . . . and sometimes it requires footrubs. GaaSaku, fluff, oneshot.


Not my series; mangled fic challenge response; post-time jump spoilers; heckin' fluff to get it out of my system.

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He was three hours into what looked to be an excruciatingly interminable meeting when Sakura slammed through the door of his office. "What were you _thinking?"_ she hissed.

The two diplomats in front of Gaara's desk cringed away as she marched up—the Leaf-nin had developed a serious reputation for her temper. Still seated, Gaara looked pointedly at his company and kept his tone and expression mild when he replied. "Do you really think this is appropriate?"

Both their observers jumped when she slammed a fist down onto his desktop. "Right now? Knowing what you did?" She bared her teeth at him. "_Absolutely."_

Gaara's eyes narrowed. "I see." He stood, folded his arms, and made a show of weighing his options before he turned to the diplomats. "I apologize for the interruption, but we need a few minutes."

Sakura didn't look away from him, her fists clenched and her wish to do violence evident in every line of her body as the two men evacuated the room. She didn't drop an iota of tension as the door clicked—though Gaara saw the hint of a smile on her face and breathed, "Wait."

They both held steady, listening intently as footsteps hurried down the hall and away. Gaara relaxed first as the threat of eavesdroppers passed, and Sakura shook off the aggressive act with a full-body shiver. "I got your message," she grinned, then grabbed one of the chairs from in front of his desk and dragged it around to the back, kicking her shoes off as she went. "Trade you again?"

"Again?" But he sat down in his chair and toed off his own sandals as well.

She faced her chair towards his, collapsed into it, and plunked her heel onto his thigh."You know how much I have to stand and run around all day." Sakura sighed happily and closed her eyes as he dug his thumbs into the ball of her foot. "Come on," she said, and patted her knee. "Trade, or I'm gonna feel bad."

It wasn't logic he could argue with. He set his heel on her leg and she went to work on him as well.

It'd been a few months since the first time, where—five hours into a pointless outdoors meeting with a person who just wouldn't _shut_ _up_—Gaara'd looked up, recognized the pink-haired kunoichi, and half-seriously mouthed, "Save me." But Sakura'd swooped in, suddenly frantic over something that required the Kazekage's attention, grabbed him by the wrist, and physically dragged him off.

A few weeks later, in Leaf, she'd sent a genin messenger to him: _Please come return the favor_. He didn't ask questions; he just barged through the door of the hospital room, told her he needed her in as dire a manner as possible, and pulled her away from someone who appeared to have been giving a monologue.

Later, sequestered in a distant training ground, they hashed out some rules and conditions: They'd only call on each other if they were in the same hidden village, and only when the annoying or painfully awkward situation mandated professional behavior from one of them and didn't seem like it'd end in any reasonable time—a requirement which had proven easy to follow. They'd also agreed to make no unreasonable requests of each other—which immediately led to a debate over what counted as "reasonable," as Sakura requested, then taught him how to give a decent foot rub . . . Something he suspected might've been her plan from the start.

Most importantly, though, they'd only keep it up if they could keep everything under wraps. Better to suffer the occasional never-ending meeting (or hypochondriac, or exhibitionist, or attention-seeker) than to let people think either of them were shirking their duties.

The last part might be becoming an issue.

"They're going to catch us," he told her.

Sakura slouched further as she kneaded his instep. "Not yet."

"That guy from a couple weeks ago ran into Kankurou recently." That escape plan had devolved into full-blown theatrics, with Gaara and the Leaf-nin overtly threatening each other—only to realize their observer wanted to see what'd happen in a clash between shinobi of their reputations. They'd had to stop circling in order to bluntly tell the man to leave while it was still safe. "He asked about you—specifically, why I let you behave that way."

She opened one eye and scowled. "Let me?"

"Kankurou laughed at him."

Sakura wrapped her fingers around one of his toes. "_Let_ me?"

"You know what he meant," he replied, with exasperation.

"He _meant_ you should control your woman," she grumbled.

Gaara mentally ran through a series of unnecessarily long-winded denials and explanations, rejected them all, and finally settled with, "I know better."

"Hall," she said, and they both froze, listening for footsteps. Silence seemed to be the best option; the time they'd tried to cover by resuming a fake argument, one of his ninjas had kicked the door down for fear the Kazekage was being attacked. They'd had to hustle the woman back out before she could notice—or ask why—they were both barefoot.

These footsteps faded as well, and Sakura exhaled and closed her eyes again. "Anyway. What's Kankurou think is happening?"

"I told him we have an arrangement involving low-risk, low-profile rescue missions." Except Kankurou still didn't seem to believe Gaara _hadn't_ taken the opportunity to bend the Leaf-nin over his desk. Gaara'd dismissed the suggestion immediately, almost out of habit . . .

Except now he found himself aware of how this pretty, bold, co-conspirative Leaf-nin had barged into his office and demanded he put his hands on her. Again.

"Rescue missions . . ." Sakura sighed. "What a way to frame that we're hiding."

"Regrouping and strategizing," he corrected, and her toes curled as she giggled.

"Making time to check on each other's physical and mental well-being?"

"Yeah."

She grinned and patted her other thigh, accepted his other foot, and went to work on it as well.

"We're going to get caught," he repeated, resignedly.

Sakura opened her eyes again and squeezed his heel. "When we do"—she smiled mischievously—"then obviously we should just tell them we're having a secret affair . . . and they shouldn't interrupt us." She looked at her foot in his hands—he'd stopped moving as he tried to process if her suggestion was a joke or a hint—then met his eyes. "What? You have a better idea?"

For the life of him, Gaara couldn't tell if she was flirting or just teasing him. "Maybe not a _better_ one," he said, and tried to not think about how much space might be on his desk.

"Relax," she laughed. "I know you've got a reputation to uphold. You know . . . Untouchable."

He pointedly looked at how their legs entangled, at his feet in her hands and lap.

"Figuratively," she corrected.

"Hall," he replied, and they stilled again, waiting for the new threat to pass.

His hand, he realized, fit almost the entire way around her ankle.

"Years of stealth training," Sakura sighed. "_Years_ of it—and look at us."

"It works."

"Until it doesn't, you said." She paused. "Do you give decent backrubs?"

"I don't know."

"Need a refresher?"

It'd mean he'd get a backrub first. "Okay."

Sakura looked at his chair, hers, the floor . . . And finally settled on the desk. She stood and touched its wooden surface. "Is it okay if I . . . ?"

"Yeah," he said, watched her sit on the edge, and tried to not think about how she fit on his desk after all—or about how much space was behind her.

"Come on," she said, and set a foot on his chair. "Turn around, and . . . Oh."

Maybe the question he should really ask himself was whether or not he _cared_ about whatever was behind her.

"Hey." When Sakura leaned down into his field of view he realized he hadn't been watching her face, he'd been watching her body. "Stop looking at me like that. Like you just figured out I'm a girl."

He frowned guiltily.

She straightened, exhaled resignedly, and shook her head. "Okay. We don't have to say it's an affair if you're not okay with it—and it's fine if you're not. It was just an idea—"

Gaara lunged to his feet as he heard a rustle of clothing: a person'd stopped walking in the hallway outside. "Door," he said as he reached for the kunoichi on his desk—and without further ado he shoved her backwards and covered her.

And for a second, as he caught the back of her head to be sure she didn't bounce off the desktop, as she twined readily around him and before she snugged his face to her throat, he saw how her eyes widened and pupils dilated—and he realized she hadn't just been teasing him.

He pulled up when the door opened, and watched as the expression of the interloping ninja shift from startled to petrified. "I'm _busy,"_ Gaara growled at him.

"Are you serious, _are you_ _**serious?"**_ Sakura wailed, as she made a show of straightening her clothes. She struggled as if trying to free herself—but with her knees locked tight at his hips, he knew she wasn't actually attempting to go anywhere. Gaara pulled her closer in an attempt to stop her squirming from distracting him, only to find he'd made the situation worse when her wriggling became distracting in a much more immediate way.

"I—" started the ninja at the door, and took a step back.

He didn't have to fein his insistence. _"Out."_

"I don't _believe_ this," Sakura continued, deeply anguished, and hid her face against his shoulder. It would've been a convincing show of her trying to cover embarrassment if he couldn't feel how hard she shook with suppressed giggles.

The unfortunate Sand-nin retreated another step, and Gaara raised a hand. "Also?" He glared. _"Not a word."_

The door closed, and Sakura's shaking intensified.

"Wait," he breathed into her ear.

Her hair smelled like some sort of flowers; since she hadn't tried to make space between them yet, he let himself try to identify them.

"I didn't know you had it in you," she whispered.

_"Wait."_

She relaxed her grip on his shoulders but not his hips; her cheek brushed his, and he felt the offer in her proximity and her smile. "Wait?"

He shook his head slowly; she shifted, her nose and forehead resting against his, and looked at him for confirmation before leaning in—testing with the carefullest touch of her lips to his, then tasting with a slow, careful kiss.

Now he got to wonder if this was part of her plan as well. He also had _no_ idea what he was supposed to do with his hands.

Waist. Waist was acceptable. Except he hadn't realized just how small she was until he actually touched her.

Whatever had been behind her couldn't be that important and almost certainly wouldn't be damaged much more if he pushed her back again.

She was nervous even as she broke away from their kiss: searching his face, patting at wrinkles in his shirt. "Please say something," she whispered.

He waited for a few seconds as he thought about how he'd just complicated his own life, about the warmth of her hands and how her legs still held him in place. Finally he replied, "How long have you been planning this?"

"Not planning, just . . . Considering. I thought about pretending, and how it'd open up new options for ways to get out of places. And then I thought about not pretending." She looked down, and began smoothing imaginary wrinkles from his sleeves. "And then I realized I was in trouble . . . Unless you were into it, too."

"So you've been considering this for a while."

"_Options,"_ she insisted, and gave a wicked little grin. "I only need so many footrubs."

This might be a strategy he could get behind—or in front of, or wherever they ended up.

"So . . ." She let go of his hips and gave his shirt a final series of strokes. "Did you still want the backrub?"

"Definitely."

He turned, sat down, and scooted his chair back to her, appreciating the way her thighs fit alongside his ribs. Sakura leaned down to him as she set her palms against his shoulders. "And how long do you think we can keep _this_ up?"

"Months, easily," he replied, accepted a kiss on his temple, and settled in for his massage.


End file.
